The Best Therapy
by Burnedtoasty
Summary: G1: Sometimes words are the only possible thing to resort to. Nobody knows words, and their power, better than Bluestreak. It’s just that, sometimes, even he doesn’t know the right ones to say.


**Disclaimer**: _I, in no way, shape, or form, own the Transformers© franchise or the characters it contains. All publicly recognizable characters are copyrighted to Hasbro, and the respective artists/writers/et cetera. No infringement intended.  
_**Fandom**: Transformers  
**Continuity**: Generation One (G1) cartoon-verse.  
**Characters**: Bluestreak, Hound, Huffer_  
_**Warnings**: War-time excerpts, told in retrospect._  
_**Author's Note**: Criticism encouraged, technical points preferable.

--

"… And it really wasn't that I didn't actually _want_ to, it just seemed like it would be a bad idea, because once I saw someone – I don't know who it was because he was a human and I don't know that many humans, except for Spike and Sparkplug and Carly but they're always here which is why I would know them and I don't think that they would be acting like that, because it doesn't seem quite like they'd be the kind of people who would – and anyways this someone I saw was driving on the Interstate, the one by that really long—"

"_Bluestreak_," Huffer managed to emote spectacularly with the one word, his inflection revealing an extra depth of weariness often felt by the pessimistic scientist. "Enough. Stop. _Please_."

The Datsun paused in his babbling, uncertainly hovering one hand over the scanner he'd been about to fiddle with. Sheepish, and a smidge hurt, he tried giving an apologetic grin, arm flopping back to his side. "Sorry, Huffer. I just thought that you'd like to hear, because it was a really spectacular moment, and it would—" Catching the subtle sigh emanating from the scientist, Bluestreak broke off once more, ducking low as if to somehow physically avoid the irritation of his fellow Autobot. "Erm, sorry."

The silence ticked by, the chatty Datsun fidgeting nervously, a thousand things twitching at the edge of his vocalizer. _Got to be quiet. Ratchet said I could be in here only if I was quiet, because he didn't want everyone to get all distracted and exasperated and I guess it would be rather annoying to have someone always talking to you when you're really busy and you just want to get some work done, and all you can do is listen to that person and you can't really concentrate—_

"I didn't mean to. I know concentrating would be really hard, I guess, if someone…." He snapped off his vocalizer with a dry click as Huffer cast a dark glance back at him. "Ah." Nervous, the Datsun shifted his weight from one foot to the other, good cheer stifled by the oppressive atmosphere radiating from Huffer. "It's not that I'm _trying_ to annoy you, y'know. I just thought that, since you're—"

"_Blue. Streak_." Exasperation caused the scientist to over-enunciate. "Please. _Stop_."

_Oops._

"Uh, I'm gonna go and… yeah." Awkwardly, Bluestreak edged toward the door, gesticulating vaguely at some unknown object.

"Okay," Profound relief echoed in scientist's tone, and Bluestreak swore he _heard_ Huffer's shoulder gears loosening. "Have fun with that. Take your time. No rush to come back."

"Yeah," Bluestreak squeaked nervously, sliding out the door. _Leave it at that, no more talking_.

He couldn't resist, tentatively calling, "Bye, Huffer."

Huffer grunted by way of valediction, waving with one hand while he worked on his project with the other. "Mm-hmm."

The pneumatic hiss announced Bluestreak's full departure, effectively closing the Datsun away from the Realm o' the Grumps. "I'm just going to… uh." He looked back and forth, flummoxed. "Um."

… _I really don't have anywhere else to go._

The twins were out Primus knew where, Bumblebee was driving Spike to something with an insanely odd name, Jazz was cruising out with Cliffjumper on a routine patrol…

Sighing, the Datsun trudged about to face opposite the door, staring dejectedly down the hall. It seemed like he had been effectively cast out of every populated area for the day. From Prowl to Prime, he was unwelcome – and without a single task to occupy him.

"It's one of _those_ days," Sighed the normally bubbly Autobot. He slumped back against the closed entryway, mulling over his predicament.

Everyone was… fed up with him, and his chatter. It wasn't really as if he could blame them; he knew he sometimes got out of hand, with his prattling. It was just so difficult to catch himself. The words flowed so naturally, so _unstoppably_ from his vocalizer, and it sometimes felt like if he didn't get them out, they'd overwhelm him completely.

And most of the time, no one really seemed to mind. Sometimes they seemed to enjoy it – Bluestreak's words overpowering their own with sheer frequency and optimism, drowning out whatsoever might haunt his fellows. He supposed it was rather therapeutic, having an ever-flowing distraction to pull them out of whatever funk they might be caught in. If anything, they could always count on some crazy account from the Datsun. Sometimes they even actively sought him out for just such a thing, and the gunner was always all too happy to oblige his friends – particularly when it involved chatting it up over a few cubes of high-grade energon.

But sometimes – like today, for instance – it got to be too much. They sympathized with him, yes; they were his friends, true; they would listen if he needed them to, but….

"Sometimes it might be too much," Said the Datsun softly, to the dim corridor.

The words bubbled up, desperate for release.

Grimacing, Bluestreak started down the corridor, counting his steps to cancel out the inner noise. He would try to be quiet, if just for now. It wasn't so bad, really. Just him and good ol' un-Bluestreak-like silence. Buddies forever.

"And pretty soon everyone will be heading back," He asserted brightly, nodding absently to himself.

_I can be quiet. It's not so bad. It isn't. It's just for a few joors. I just won't think about anything like how they kil—_

"Mmmmmph," the Datsun groaned, stomping harder to distract himself. "No, no, no!" Anxious for an outlet, Bluestreak glanced up and down the disturbingly silent passage, neurotically running a hand over one arm. Wonderful. Fantastic. Of course he would think of the one thing he didn't want to. Of course.

The decided hush pressed inwards, smothering.

"Hello?" He called faintly, with dim hope for an answer.

On the soft reverberations cast by his own voice answered, dwindling back into oppressive stillness.

_Nobody's there. Nobody to talk to, to talk _for_, to drown out… everything. The words can't help if they're all inside. It's just them and the memories…_

"No," Bluestreak told himself forcibly, wrenching his hand away to rest it against the wall. Spasmodically, his fingers clenched, digging into the solid mass of the Ark until the metal groaned and buckled. Unaware, Bluestreak huddled around his midsection, curling tight. _Don't think about it, don't think about it, don't—_

Idiot.

Images flashed rapid fire through his CPU – drawn up by the very act of trying to repel them. Trembling, Bluestreak sagged fully against the wall, listening to the hum of the machinery, optics flicking offline as he struggled. "Stop it," He whimpered softly, just below audible levels. "No more, stop it, please, oh, _stop_…"

_Smoke. Smoke everywhere. The screech of tetrajets as they made another low pass, dropping their bombs. The unbearable heat flush against his faceplate, as he ran._

The words scrambled up and over him, devastating his processors, engulfing the corporeal sensations from his sensors. "I don't want to, I don't, I don't…"

_Dead, dead, dead, everyone was dead._

Distraught, the Datsun flinched away from his prop, staggering his way down the hall. "There are four oceans on this planet," He told the emptiness, optics fixated on some distant time and place. "Which is really weird because it seems like it all should be just one big one because they're all connected and—"

_He tripped, skidding in the thick residue, sprawling across the debris. Curious despite himself, he drew his hand to his face—_

"—and, and, and…" His flagging pace faltered completely, dragging him to a halt. Uncoordinated, the gunner stumbled aside, again catching himself on the wall. He struggled to recall what he had been blathering about, but the knowledge eluded him, just beyond reach. Grimacing, he contorted once more in upon himself, frantically digging through his memory banks for the lost train of thought.

— _fingers trembling as he registered what it was—_

No, the temporary refuge was well and truly gone.

But the memories weren't. They never were.

_The digits were absolutely slick with tepid energon, sliding smoothly down and settling into the myriad of joints, faintly accusing. It glistened, reflecting back the fires a thousand fold, encapsulating the horrifying beauty that was to be found in the play of light._

Again, the whine of patrolling tetrajets, the faint rumble of far-off explosions, assaulted his audios.

With unwilling optics, his gaze drifted downward, to the source of the flow.

Beside him lay the deactivated husk that had once been a fellow Cybertronian, inert as sheet metal. Its ravaged face was still twisted in a rictus of agony, petrified and immortalized by death, limbs held in awkward, tortured arcs. One charred hand was lifted beseechingly toward the sky, in a silent appeal to the cruising shadows that were the Decepticons, to beg an end to the butchery. The rest of it was barely 

_recognizable as a mechanism, so burned and devastated as it was. Lacerations covered its frame, gaping, silent wounds quietly drizzling the glimmering trails of energon into the street, seeping into the cracked and buckled ground._

Bluestreak shuddered. "Oh, Primus, oh, no, no, no," He whimpered, scuttling backward, casting terrified optics to the grimy sky. The oily residue of telling smoke hung thick in the atmosphere, blotting out the sky, stifling the cityscape in a ruddy glow. It reached with putrid fingers into the wreckage, choking and thick, groping to strangle the remains.

A plum of fire leapt into the sky, heralding the imminent collapse of a remote skyscraper. The conflagration, abandoned to its work, licked and tongued the sky, a perverted caress across the belly of the beast. The sleek forms of tetrajets flashed across its expanse, as black, beady little eyes darting to and fro, seeding death and ruin wherever they flitted to.

Again, the youth trembled. "Oh, Primus, no…" He tried to rise to his feet, stumbling in the haphazardly strewn wreckage. In his panic, he lost his footing again, falling to his knees, one hand slinking into the cadaver's chest cavity.

The inert corpse spasmed, one optic clicking online in a sightless flash of blue. A raw hiss of anguish issued from its vocalizer, blossoming into a tormented, wailing shriek.

Bluestreak joined the scream with one of his own, and fled.

"I… I… _stop_ it…"

_It was everywhere. The stink of genocide, of slaughter and massacre, of smelting pools and scorched metal and death, so much death, no matter where he turned to…_

A hand brushed his car door wings, concerned. Softly, "Blue?"

--

Hound frowned slightly, hesitating. Yes, there it was again. The soft murmuring.

Inquisitive, the jeep shoved the energon cube he'd been nursing since his return to the Ark into subspace, following the quiet mumble.

What he saw was entirely unexpected, of course. Of course, one generally didn't go about expecting to see one's comrades huddled up against a wall, whimpering and quivering like a half-dead dog. Alarmed, Hound started forward, keeping his footfalls light, so as to avoid unduly startling the slouching Bluestreak. From what he could see, the gunner didn't _appear_ to be injured. And he was facing opposite to the med bay.

Apprehensive, Hound paused, a discrepancy in the wall catching his gaze. It appeared that… someone's fingers had dug _into_ the metal, leaving trace amounts of energon around the sharp corners. He tentatively placed his own hand over the markings, falling just short of touching them.

Bluestreak shuddered hard. "… Stop it…" he mumbled, half-moaning.

Concern growing exponentially by the astrosecond, the scout finished his perusal of the warping, and reached out tentatively to touch the gunner's door wings. "Blue?"

The Datsun sprang away from the wall as if he'd be electrocuted, pivoting hard to face the scout. "Hound!" Relief and chipper glee filled Bluestreak's vocalizer as he caught sight of the jeep. "I thought you were scouting off road today."

Ignoring the initial conversational opening, Hound settled back on his heels, regarding the Datsun with worried optics. "Are you… alright?"

"Hm? Me? Oh, I'm 'peachy'," Bluestreak said blithely, grinning broadly at the usually affable jeep. "That's what Spike said before. It has nothing to do with peach_es_, which I don't really understand why it wouldn't, but then again humans are really weird sometimes so I guess it's understandable in a strange backward kind of way." He shrugged expansively, jollity not wavering for an instant. In that distinctively Bluestreak way, he fell back to his initial trail of thought, without missing a beat. "So, did you go to that cave that you were talking about before? The one with all the bats in it?"

Recognizing the pattern, Hound set his disquiet on the proverbial backburner. He knew his friend well enough to indulge him… for the moment. "I did." The scout motioned toward the way he had been heading, letting the Datsun fall into step beside him. "It was pretty spectacular."

"You must not have gone in very deep, since you're back so soon," Bluestreak continued merrily, familiar bounce in his gait. It was difficult not to throw himself at the scout in thanks, jubilant at the reprieve.

"I didn't want to upset the residents," Hound's mouth curled up slightly, despite himself. It really had been a beautiful place. The cave had echoed with the sounds of the tiny, delicate mammals, giving it the odd charm of a discordant cacophony. He rather thought it sounded like many voices, all laughing at once. "I might've startled them out of their natural rhythm if I had gone in further."

Bluestreak agreed readily, pouncing on the opening to continue blathering. "I guess that's reasonable, since they're so small. Did you know that bats are the only organics of the mammalian genus that flies? Bumblebee told me that once, when he was still helping with Spike's biology homework, but I thought it was rather funny that it ended up with Spike explaining everything to Bumblebee, but at least he could explain it at all, which means that he probably didn't need all that much help in the first place, so I think he was doing just so 'Bee would stop trying to read over his shoulder."

"Probably," Hound acknowledged. He found it was best to reply with the minimum amount of words, allowing Bluestreak to continue largely uninterrupted, when the Datsun fell into one of his 'moods'. Truth be told, Hound didn't mind not talking all that much; it was rather relaxing to just sit back and let Bluestreak run at the vocalizer, skimming through topics with alarming alacrity.

"… but there are so many subspecies of creatures and they're all in separate classes. All of them have different internal systems, and most can't even change environments which I think is really inconvenient and probably more than halves their chances of surviving a climate change, which really is a pity because there's so much variety on earth than on Cy—" Bluestreak broke off abruptly, the steady stream of words rattling into a startled hush.

The silence continued for a few astroseconds, just long enough for Hound to glance down and let that trepidation sink into his expression once more. "Blue?"

"Uh, anyways," Coughed the Datsun edgily, maladroitly glancing away to avoid making optic-contact. "There are some mammals that can't even survive on dry land, which is kinda weird because they're an air breathing subspecies, and for the most part are land dwelling because it's easier to breathe when they're not inhaling water – but then there are others that can survive in both terrains and that just seems rather strange to put them in one section just because they have two or three traits in common when really there are so many dissimilarities that they should all be in their own classifications, but Spike says that it's more than that." He shrugged again, dismissing the humans' odd species-categorizing procedure as another peculiarity of earth.

"There would be too many if they had each one to its own class," Hound chimed in quietly, still watching the jabbering mechanism beside him fretfully.

"Right, it might be hard to remember all of their names, since humans have that… bizarre memory filing system." Bluestreak considered it carefully. "It's really ineffective. I mean, they can design a system to retain information – from paper to computers – but they can't even upgrade their own memory banks which is really sad and so weird to think about because it's so easy for us and I guess they're stuck with what they are initially given." He hesitated again, perusing the information he retained, before launching further into the largely one-sided discussion. "Though I have to wonder what it would be like to have such a short life span. Maybe they just can't handle all the information staying in their data banks since they're programmed for a century-long lifespan and…." The prattle continued unabated, Bluestreak immersing himself in the flimsy protection of chattering inanely. Everything and anything that crossed his mind was covered; from human biology to the water wheel to the alphabet, Hound patiently listening and commenting to it all with brief intervals.

Until, inevitably, Bluestreak stalled.

It wasn't for a lack of subjects; he clearly had amassed an expansive repertoire of available topics over the course of the day. What seemed to halt the near-ceaseless flow was Hound himself, though he had done nothing out of the ordinary.

One moment, Bluestreak was quite contentedly blabbing away about the way some letters looked exactly the same whether they were capitalized or not, the next he was frozen mid-vowel, vocalizer fritzing in discomfort.

"I'm sorry, Hound, am I talking too much?" The Datsun seemed genuinely mortified, peeking up at the jeep with wide, inconsolable optics.

"What?" the scout asked, surprised. Then, still baffled, "No, Blue. You're not talking too much."

"Oh. Okay," Bluestreak tapped his fingertips together, glancing back and forth compulsively. He did not, however, reassume his endless stream of words, puzzlingly embarrassed.

"You can keep going, if you want."

Then, timidly. "Are you sure? Everyone seems pretty… uppity today, and –" He stopped himself uncertainly, peering around as if he expected some threat to swoop in blast him to smithereens. Seeing as no unknown enemies were dropping from the metalwork, he turned to regard Hound, wringing his hands apprehensively. "I… know that I can be annoying because I can sometimes just go on and on about something even if it's really not that important and I guess that can get irritating if you were trying to – oops… there I go again." He tittered nervously, shifting his weight.

Hound paused, debating with himself only briefly. "Want to go on a drive?"

"Huh?" The request seemed to stall the younger mechanism. "Drive where?"

"Just around and about," Hound replied genially, giving the gunner a reassuring, lopsided grin. "We've still got a few hours of daylight left. Might as well use 'em."

"Oh. I… that sounds like fun," Though he still looked somewhat ambivalent about the suggestion, the Datsun readily traipsed along beside the scout, as they set back out for the entrance. And, shockingly, Bluestreak remained mute.

The uncharacteristic silence emanating from the mechanism beside him was actually somewhat disturbing. To fill the quiet – which he normally quite enjoyed – Hound coughed unnecessarily, clearing his vocalizer, 

before informing his companion: "I actually found an absolutely spectacular view, recently. Remember when the Insecticons came through here, and chewed up the trees?"

The Datsun shrugged, hushed.

Hound frowned slightly. Usually Bluestreak pounced on any and every vocal opening as if his very spark depended upon it, mouth going a mile a minute before you even had a chance to register it.

Odd.

"… Well, there was this little lake down there – one our little group almost ended up swimming facedown in, if you get my drift. Anyhow, while I was off-roading earlier, I wandered in, and… well, you'll just have to see it." Babbling was not the taciturn scout's style, frankly. It was painfully obvious, with the way his voice started and stopped, uncertain, as he waited for Blue to break into the conversation, and start directing it again.

Unfortunately, there was no such luck.

Heaving an internal sigh, Hound opened the main door, transforming into his alternate mode. Behind him, Bluestreak did the same, though a smidge on the hesitant side. In an ambiguous silence, they set out, bumping along the winding back trails forged and maintained by both Autobots and park rangers.

As they got further and further from base – and whatever had so distressed him – Bluestreak's depressive funk seemed to lighten. He zoomed contentedly along, engine revving occasionally as they hit the steeper inclines. Occasionally, he even broke into a running commentary, at seemingly random intervals.

Hound, for his part, was relieved. He wasn't perhaps the best spark at comforting others, but it was always gratifying for his efforts to amount to something. And, perhaps, it had just been a lapse he had witnessed. For all intents and purposes, Bluestreak seemed chipper as ever, now.

Though, honestly, that only really said so much.

He knew Blue had… issues, with his past. Horrors still haunted the sharpshooter, things that Hound would rather not contemplate. It was true; they all had their tales of woe. Yet, somehow, it seemed all the more tragic in Bluestreak, because of his youth, and, perhaps, his nearly unflagging determination to put on that upbeat, optimistic face to the entire world.

Primus knew what unspeakable things lurked behind that happy-go-lucky façade…

Hound pulled to a stop, recognizing their destination as he wrenched himself free from the morbid contemplation. "Alright, Blue, here we are."

Just in time, it seemed. The sun was beginning to make the final laborious journey toward its setting, perched elegantly just above the broken spine of the outlying mountains.

Bluestreak transformed, looking about himself in dismay. "It's, er, very… leafy," The Datsun waved vaguely, uncertain, before turning to face Hound imploringly.

The scout smiled wryly. "It takes a while for most to appreciate nature," He told the gunner genially, settling himself on an expanse of grass. "It's a little weird – how varied and random it is. But… I guess it sort of grows on ya." He patted the space next to him invitingly.

The younger mechanism looked down, dubious, before gingerly lowering himself to the earth. Curious, he caught a few blades of the delicate flora between his fingers, fixated on the way they bent at his touch. "I never really noticed there was this much vegetation on earth. Well, I mean, I knew there was, because I've seen it, and I've been on it before, but I've never really _noticed_ it much before, you know?" He petered off, contemplating something. Then, hesitantly, "You… really like this planet, don't you?"

Hound nodded absently, fondly looking around him. He sincerely adored earth. Everything about it seemed so… peaceful. Beautiful. Perversely, he felt more connected to it than the hollow shell that was his home planet.

"Sometimes…" He started quietly, not wishing to disturb the tranquility, before clearing his vocalizer and trying again, with more confidence. "Sometimes I think that, if we ever get the chance to revitalize Cybertron, and go home… that I don't want to." He glanced down, studying his own hands. "I think I'd rather stay here."

For his part, Bluestreak looked mildly shocked by the statement, startled that a fellow transformer could prefer an organic planet to his own home world. Twice, he started to speak, thinking to contradict what Hound had claimed, to find a reason that he shouldn't have thought in that particular manner, and, twice, he stopped. Was it really so bad, to believe that a different, incredibly alien planet such as earth was preferable to the looming husk of their previous home, rank with old wounds and painful memories, with the stink of genocide and war worked into its very metal?

His programming told him, 'yes; yes it was that bad', but… he could understand the sentiment. In many ways, he didn't _want_ Cybertron to be rejuvenated. It somehow seemed… wrong, like desecrating a burial chamber, like… like ignoring those you could have helped just because you were afraid, running away into the deserted buildings and trembling in fright, too much a coward to go back and search for survivors…

Staring out over the pristine silence of the lake, Bluestreak nodded faintly, conveying his understanding. Yes, he could see why Hound would find this new, fresh world would be more appealing. Earth had no scars, no old hurts to pain them. An opportunity to begin again.

No memories.

"What about you?" Hound asked, mildly discomfited with the candidness of his admission. He had expected some sort of incredulous babbling to the contrary, to have the younger mechanism somehow talk him out of his mindset. Thrown off by this peculiar stillness from the gunner, he redirected the conversation, prompting a response. "Would you go back, if you had the chance?"

"I… I don't know." Bluestreak began, uncertain. "I, well, I don't really care for this planet, really, because this isn't home. I don't really like organic, and it's nothing like… there. But… there… there's so many memories, all tied up with it, and I'm not really sure if I want to find something like home again."

Now that he was forced to sit and think about it, he supposed he never wanted to go back, either.

"I understand that. The war's changed everything so much… well, it just doesn't seem right, to go back and pretend that it's exactly the way it was."

Bluestreak nodded in accord, continuing to idly play with the surrounding foilage. Then, seemingly without warning, he stopped, glancing sidelong at the scout.

"H-Hound, can I… tell you something?" He quailed timorously, for once struggling for the words.

"Go ahead," Encouraged the jeep, patiently. He had expected something of this nature to come up, and knew it was a long time coming - if it was what he thought it was.

"I – I, it's just that I need to, to—" Bluestreak shook his head, reorganizing his thoughts. Continuing on another itinerary, he tried once more, looking for a cohesiveness that was clearly not there. "Sometimes I talk because it keeps everyone up, I guess." He dropped his gaze to the grassy floor, uncomfortable at the idea of speaking about what he normally kept bottled up. For all the words he used, there were some he had never uttered, and hadn't really had any intention to. Yet… somehow, Hound's quiet reassurance made him just want to explain those words, as if it would somehow soothe them. "And… well, everyone knows about… those things, even though no one says anything about it. But I just, it, I— sometimes the words all clutter up in my head and I just need to get them out or I swear I'm going to be smothered by them and I just, I just can't seem to– _they_ keep coming back, the memories just all scramble up, and sometimes I just don't know what to _do_, and so I just keep talking to sort of drown them out, because if I don't, if I don't stop myself from remembering it's all just going to, to, to just _stay_ there, and I'm babbling but I, I mean, do you understand?" Taking a quivering, steadying breath, the gunner shuddered, drawing his knees close to his body, half-huddling. His optics drifted listlessly over the horizon, dimming and brightening at random. "I… I don't mean to annoy you, or anything, and I probably shouldn't have just gone off like that but…" He looked back up, vulnerable and exposed, knowing that a few callous words could send him spiraling, all his trust placed in the scout.

"It's okay, Blue," Hound smiled affably, knowing just what to say. "I'm always ready to hear you out."

A wide, wavering grin split Bluestreak's faceplate. "Thank you," He said hoarsely, touched.

Maybe his talking was healing to the others, giving them a lifeline in the horror that was the war. But for Bluestreak, perhaps the best therapy was just having someone there to _listen._


End file.
